


honeysuckle.

by saikikokomi



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Adoptive parents yay, Domestic, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Found Family, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25588762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saikikokomi/pseuds/saikikokomi
Summary: Lancelot has saved Percival from the Red Paladins, but he has yet to protect him from the real danger; Feykind. He knows that whilst the Fey children are innocent as of yet, once exposed to their race, they will grow to be devils. He can’t let that happen to Percival. And yet he can’t kill the closest Fey to him, the one he’s been hunting this whole time. The Wolf-Blood Witch has intruded upon his plans, and it seems to have worked, because he can’t help wondering how someone like her could be anything close to evil.
Relationships: Arthur/Guinevere (Cursed), Gawain & Nimue & Percival & Pym (Cursed), Gawain & Nimue (Cursed), Lancelot & Percival (Cursed), Lancelot/Nimue (Cursed), Morgana | Igraine & Nimue & Pym (Cursed), Nimue & Percival & Pym (Cursed), Nimue & Percival (Cursed), Nimue & Pym (Cursed), The Weeping Monk/Nimue
Comments: 8
Kudos: 120





	honeysuckle.

Honeysuckle. Amidst the sweat and blood that had clung to his skin and enveloped the air around him for hours, somewhere a light honeysuckle scent joined. His eyes had been drooping, but he snapped them open, the floral smell overcoming his senses. This was the scent of a fey.

Instinct kicked in, and instantly his hand swept to the sword tucked in its sheath. No. He couldn’t harm the fey anymore, not until their true nature revealed itself. As long as Percival was with him, he knew he had to stop, but it would only be a matter of time before Percival realised that the older Fey could be monsters. If it had to come down to it, Lancelot would slay any Fey in his path that tried to take Percival. He wasn’t going to let Percival be exposed to their monstrous ways.

Though he tucked the sword back in, his mind was racing. It was best for him to find this Fey that was nearby and avoid them at all costs, before it found them. In an attempt to get off his horse, he stumbled to the ground. He had forgotten he was in the worst shape he’d ever been in his life—well, apart from the times Father had left him cowering on the ground after using the whip.

Percival hurriedly followed, his arm steadying Lancelot and his mouth spitting out curses as to what the hell Lancelot was doing. Lancelot didn’t know what to tell him. He was a good kid; albeit, he had a foul mouth, but he had asked Lancelot if he was all right multiple times on their journey. No one had ever done that before. But however good he was, when exposed to evil, nobody would be able to resist. That’s why Lancelot couldn’t let Percival rejoin the Fey. But Percival wouldn’t understand this. Lancelot had to keep quiet.

“Water,” he explained.

“I don’t see any water,” Percival swivelled his head at the landscape. “Don’t tell me you’re as blind as that idiot with the sewd-up eyes.”

He ignored this. He was going to have to get used to it, if he was going to hide Percival from the Fey. “I can smell it. There’s a lake near a waterfall around the cliff. It’s rocky terrain; best if we stay on foot.” There was a pause. “Can you do that?” Lancelot didn’t know why he had asked that. Of course Percival should be able to do that. Father had taught Lancelot that any boy who couldn’t endure activities like this was weak and pathetic, a sign of the Devil. Yet as his gaze rested on Percival, he couldn’t help wishing Percival could properly rest. It was pathetic for children to rest, Lancelot knew that, but it was only going to take a short time. Just a short break, for Percival. He deserved that.

As Percival nodded furiously, always eager to show that he was capable and ready, Lancelot shook his head. “You stay here. Take a rest. If you hear anyone, run. Don’t come to warn me-“ As Percival began to protest, Lancelot fixed his gaze upon him. Percival quietened. “Get somewhere safe.”

“You’re worse than Gaw-“ He stopped, and dropped his head. Lancelot had never seen Percival upset, so withdrawn, even as Brother Salt had been threatening to cut his tongue out. Gawain’s fate had hit him hard. Lancelot reached out his arm—and then stopped. He stepped away, his mild confusion clear on his face. Had he really sought to comfort him? He was getting soft. Softness was weakness.

Lancelot said nothing. Instead, he placed the cloak that had been draped around him for over a decade, on the ground for Percival to sit upon. Their horse stood nearby, easily accessible for Percival in case anything happened.

After checking that he had his sword and dagger tucked into his belt, he set off, knowing that he was wasting time—though it was strange how the scent hadn’t gotten weaker. That was good, he thought. This Fey wasn’t heading anywhere near Percival.

Percival. Lancelot stopped for a moment, his mind clouding with something awfully similar to... guilt? He hadn’t comforted the boy over Gawain, and suddenly Lancelot remembered how everyday after his parents’ deaths had been shrouded in darkness. No comforting words, no one to tell him he was going to be all right, that it wasn’t over, that he’d survive the pain of their deaths and grow stronger. That he wasn’t broken.

He turned around. Percival was staring far into the desert, almost wistfully, but his head snapped at the motion Lancelot had made. Lancelot almost nodded in pride; Percival was an observant boy, and if this had proved anything, it was that he could take care of himself and escape anyone. Instead, he said, “Stay safe.” Was that enough? From Percival’s simple nod, it clearly wasn’t. “The Green Knight may be dead, but he is still with you, looking over you. Remember that.” That was all Lancelot had told himself when he was younger, that the spirits of his parents were still guarding him. Every time he beat a Red Paladin in a swordfight, every time he survived a battle, he would tell himself it was his parents that brought him safety. Of course, he had never told Father this, and soon he stopped thinking it, knowing that his parents had been demons all along. But it had helped the first few frightful years, when he had been too naive to know that though Father sometimes seemed cruel, he was doing everything for the greater good.

Stuck in his thoughts regarding the past, he didn’t realise he had drawn so close to one of the craggy ridges encompassing the mountain, until the honeysuckle scent suddenly overwhelmed him.

And it was only then he remembered whose it was; the Wolf-Blood Witch. The one he had been seeking for so long, and failed in doing so. He had been close every time, but she had just managed to escape his grasp. That wasn’t going to happen this time. He was going to do the job once and for all. He would kill her.

He slid his sword out of its sheath, one hand on it as he drew closer. Once he edged past the ridge, he found a meandering river, wide and deep with the riverbed carrying no traction, only small pebbles and stones being swept by the waves. She must have fallen, he realised. That was good. He was still recovering from his wounds against the Trinity Guard, but she’d be much more disorientated and drowsy than him. She wouldn’t be able to use her magic. One arc of his sword and it’d be over.

But that arc never came. His eyes caught on a flowing mass of brown hair waddling through the water, becoming smaller and smaller as he stared. She was struggling, her body dropping farther, her arms flailing about. And he didn’t know why, he couldn’t even begin to fathom why, but his hand let go of the sword. And touched the water instead as he tore off his heavily-padded clothes and dived into the river.

He was not as accustomed to the water, but years of hunting the Sky Folk had meant he’d had to learn. And yet now he was saving one. He didn’t know what had possessed him, but the desperation she had had, the helplessness that had struck her, had conjured up visions of his own sufferings as a child back when he was no match for the Paladins that engaged in sword fights with him and left him with bruises and blood everywhere. He had wished for someone to save him everyday. Until he finally learned the error of his ways and decided he’d have to save everybody instead from the darkness that were the Fey.

He took a deep breath and then went underneath, his arms stroking the water as he reached for her. Once he was close enough, his eyes stinging and his head clouding, he extended his arm to wrap it around hers and yanked her up. His grip on her was steel-like, and as he swam up to the shore, her body trailed his. His eyes had barely focused on where he was going, and he hit the rocky floodplain abruptly, a slight grunt of pain leaving his mouth as his head started bleeding. Though it was only mild, and he managed to pull her up after him, making sure her head didn’t fit the rocks but instead rested upon his legs as he slumped down.

His head went to her chest immediately, and not hearing a heartbeat, he began pounding on it. A rapid succession of hits heaved her chest up and down, but her eyes weren’t opening, and he took a deep breath once again before drawing his lips to hers, exhaling into her mouth as his hand pinched her nose.

He waited a few moments, wondering for a split-second why he was even doing this, before breathing into her once again. He repeated this a few times, before he decided there was no point of it and raised his head, thinking of a way he could hide her body so Percival wouldn’t see and get the wrong idea. He had just begun to think that maybe it was best Percival did know, so Lancelot could teach him that the Fey girl was not to be idolised, when a struggled gasp suddenly emerged from her mouth and he shifted in surprise.

He leaned forward, gaze stuck on her face. Her cerulean orbs shone like the river that she had just been in, her hair the colour of dark autumn leaves, her pale skin reminiscent of winter snows. Everything about her screamed Fey, and yet... he couldn’t help thinking that maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Could evil lie within someone like this? Yes, Father’s voice told him in his head. He remembered what Father had said to him, that the Devil could take many forms, particularly the purest ones. And that was why they were so dangerous.

That was why she was so dangerous. No matter how she looked, she was the Wolf-Blood Witch. And to her, he was the Weeping Monk, as evident by her river-like eyes suddenly darkened to the colour of the night sky as she snarled, “You.”


End file.
